Down Pour
by Teatrichor
Summary: Karkat hated the rain. He hated it because it scolded him in his home, the home he didn't have, and chilled his body. He had no resistance from the rain, no cover, it just trickled on and snickered at him. Karkat also had no resistance to what came with the rain. He had no resistance to his future. (Belongstohussieyo)
1. Cloudburst

The very tell-tale breezes of Spring tickled trees silly. The Sun beat down on this troll like Hell fire, something he had come to reason with after giving up the debating of seasons last year when December had hit him like a bus, leaving snow piled so high he was forced to skip work for a whole week should it ever hoped to melt. He had also come to appreciate the warm weather, at least for a little while. That was until he decided that every sweater and jacket he owned was rendered useless against the sky above, a sweat breaking out should he even take his chances in the sunlight. Sometimes, it just flat out made him feel like a vampire.

Spring always had its tendencies of warm weather, but times came hard when Mother Nature took its toll and released a years worth at least of water supply onto the city. Those were the days Karkat didn't mind the weather all too bad, at least when he was inside during it. The gentle pitter patter of the rain along his windows and the scurry of raindrops sprinting down relaxed him. When he was outside in the rain, he truly just _hated it._

It seemed that today happened to be one of those days.

Down pour. It was chaotic. The only credit he gave to the weather man was that he really knew how to cram a pole a mile up his ass, spout about Sunny with a chance of Spring showers, and remind Karkat that he was to be sprouting wings and turning into the fairy princess he'd always known he could be. With a fit of curses spewing mildly from his chilled lips, he ducked into a lit up store and out of the pelting rain, one he'd seen before but had never bothered to peek inside. The chime of the door bell reflected exactly the opposite of his mood and Karkat soon found a scowl resting sinister on his face. He was soaking wet, but the others sifting between shelves seemed not to notice, as if they had all been in the same boat and it was nothing knew. The clerk offered a hello, but he paid them no notice. Today was not the best of days.

It took a moment in the pleasant music from the shop for him to trudge forward, and holy shit did one step make him feel like led. With water sloshing chills up his foot cast aside, he found himself trudging to a very isolated booth located deep in the back of the library tucked behind the occasional rows. A small coffee shop set vacant, not a single customer but the staff seemingly alert. There was the shuffling of feet, raindrops pattering on the window his booth was installed in the corner near, and the occasional steaming of a pot, but other than that there carried a pleasant silence throughout the shop. There was that same ting of a bell that sent Karkat's nerves up a stage, but he brushed it off with the sense of ice trickling over his spine, offering a shiver from the troll. The warmth from the coffee nearby did nothing to warm the tattered jacket over his shoulders, nor dry him, and he decided quickly that it'd be best to peel it off, though as he slid his arm out of one worn-down sleeve, the air conditioning had begged to differ and sent shivers through his skin in waves, much like pins jabbing into your skin.

 _Plop._ A droplet of water was sent askew as he dropped the garbage of a jacket heavily onto the seat beside him, now stuck in a T-shirt that stuck uncomfortably to his body with moisture, only allowing the breeze of the air conditioning to whisk through the fabric like it might as well have had holes in it, only adding to the chill. He let his gaze drift up towards the coffee station, considering for a moment to purchase one, but the idea was long forgotten as soon as it had come. He didn't have enough money, and pay day came Sunday. It was fucking Tuesday. Karkat wasn't sure what he'd do when he tried to get home. His "home" had probably been destroyed. His home consisted of multiple tossed clothing articles he'd gathered from the Good Will he normally nested out by where they tossed items broken by children or clothes too old to sell. They were aware of his presence and actually acknowledged his presence and sometimes gave him clothes.

There was a grinch of an elderly woman there who had a scowl like none other, but she was diagnosed with Cancer. It pinched his heart that she made the best of it at a place that helped others, even if she didn't like others that much. People called her Snowy, or Snowman from her icy personality. It suited her. There was a very spiffy couple there, one that happened to have some Australian tone or something that set him off, and the other who sported a set of frames that could jab somebody's eyes out. The two were Dirk and Jake, and Karkat hated them with a passion that burned brighter than the Green Sun. Another girl worked there with them that had abnormally white hair that she always tended to dye, but the colors were either black, white, or green. She was seemingly obsessed with Trolls and.. was surprisingly polite. Her name was Calliope, but she preferred some kind of alternate name (That was the exact same thing as her other name) in quoting of her "Trollsona," Callie Opeeee. He also hated her. Lukewarm. Ish. Okay, if he was being honest with himself, she was probably the least of the group that he hated, but he had trouble expressing his ease at how easy it was to talk to her and eventually just started arguments that always led to her in tears. Callie was a very sensitive person, and he'd learned that the hard way.

Somehow, he had managed to befriend them all and sometimes was invited to their houses to sleep occasionally, should a storm be coming or things like that. He appreciated them more than he could put into words in the end though and would take a bullet for any of them should it come down to it. There was a growing silence in the shop, the rain taking his attention entirely until he noticed that his gaze was left to linger towards the coffee shop where a very intimidated-looking girl was blinking at him. Shit. He was staring. "What-? I- Shit." He let the words fall out before he could process them and cast his gaze away hastily. The woman, from the corner of his eye, gave a defeated sigh (Assumedly from relief) and returned to her work, sending the suspicious glance to him infrequently. Golden orbs of the troll had been set on another contender in the growing line of Karkat-incidental-glare-down-targets, though neither of them had taken note of his gaze yet, the neither of them retaining to the cashier of whom had offered him the greeting upon entrance and an anonymous blonde of which suspiciously toted a pair of aviators atop his nose. It reminded him momentarily of Dirk, and he took a second to question what the fuck was up currently with these hipster tyrants and their shades. Seriously, should he see one more pair of sunglasses inside a building being bluntly unnecessary, he will immediately take for them rocketing to the top of his shit list faster than Neil Armstrong on his fuckall vacation to the moon.

The blonde offered a nod and turned away, and Karkat let the attention sent towards the other to hang about, if just for an instant longer. There was a lean to the boy as he strutted some kind of hipster-doo-dad where you jammed your hands into your pockets and gave a very odd curve to your waist as you strode. It sent some kind of "intimidation" vibe apparently, though Karkat felt nothing of that. Actually, to ones shock, he felt curiosity. It wasn't that same boiling wrath—Okay, maybe a little, but that was the minor to the major, here, that he normally felt when he looked at Dirk, though it may have been because he generally knew Dirk to be an asshole, whereas he didn't even know this persons name. It took a moment, but his attention was forcefully divided to the small rack of vinyl records that the bespectacled boy was flicking through, that he took notice that this store actually held those, tough he supposed it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise. Some libraries sold movies, even. It was a small town, after all.

He found his mind lingering towards a movie once that he'd watched, A Star Is Born, from 1854 where Norman Maine struggled with her career in acting from the faults of Esther Blodgett, an alcohol-addicted problem that stood in the way of Miss Maine's lifetime goals and future. The movie was a real heart puller that yanked on his arm and asked him what the fuck he was doing. Wait, what?

Only now had he realized that he'd allowed himself to completely loose track of his actions, resulting in the blonde standing directly in front of him, tugging at his arm lightly and inquiring just that.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

A silence followed as Karkat readjusted himself to reality, blinking up into those abyssal frames perked atop his face with rather golden orbs in comparison.

"Don't touch me," he started off, tugging his arm away, "and what the fuck is it that YOU'RE doing?" he finished, allowing his eyes to linger over the other for a moment. He was tall. Really tall. But that may have been the fact that Karkat found almost anyone, and that meant everyone, larger than him. It just happened to be that Karkat was naturally small and the world was abnormally… big.

"You've been staring at me like a creep for at least ten minutes." The boy gave a very monotone blink down to the troll. Karkat felt like a sweat was coming on, but chances were high that it was a drop of water trickling down his spine, causing him to shiver.

"I was looking at.. The records. Clearly." Perfect retort, Karkat. Fucking grade A. He gave a roll of his eyes, more towards himself, though the other standing above him seemed to take this offensively and raised his brow.

"What happened?" The boy took a seat across from the troll, setting his elbows up onto the table and resting his chin onto his laced fingers.

"Should I feel honored that a stranger just invited themselves to sit down with me and dig into my business or feel mortally disgusted? Because I'm pretty sure it's the latter."

"Well I originally thought I would have to punch somebody and make a scene for creepin' on me, but you're a lot smaller than I originally thought and, correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like you need a jacket." The upturn of the corner of his lips was the only sign that he may have been joking, but Karkat couldn't decipher whether or not he was sincere. But then again, unless he was some shit-eating hipster aspirant, he wouldn't have had a very good reason to be talking to Karkat in the first place. The dust settled between them as Karkat allowed his eyes to drift over the other, representing something of a judgmental once-over.

"Sure, I'm cold, but who isn't? It's pouring outside and I'm certain I wasn't the only one who hauled my ass in here soaking with a pound or thousand of water, so why give the critique to me?" He raised a suspicious brow at the blonde across from him. Seriously, at moments like these, he just wanted to be alone, AWAY from people like him.

"Well if you were listening, I already mentioned that you were staring.. In my general direction. But," he raised his hands indignantly. "if you want me to go that bad, I'll leave." And he stood, adjusting the scarf around his neck and tossing a single glance back to his seat before he strode away. Karkat shot a pointed look at his back as he went. Something looked out of place about him.

And then it hit him.

Karkat slammed his hands onto the table and leaned up, peering over to the other side at the beige sweater the boy had been wearing. How the hell did he slip that off? He had a scarf on and everything, and Karkat was watching him the whole time! Did he do it before-hand?

"Fucking hell.." The troll muttered to himself, extending his small arms and swatting at the hipster attire until it touched his fingertips and eventually was taken into his palms. He blinked at it, because it was shockingly soft compared to the sticky shirt he wore now. It was also clean, again better compared to the goodwill shirt he'd been sporting for at least a week now. So he tossed it over his arm and turned, striding forward towards the bathrooms. It came as quite a relief to get the rain-infected shirt off and took an unnecessary amount of paper towels to get the water that came with the T-Shirt off, but slipping the sweater over his head onto the chilled skin of his torso felt like a blanket over him. It might as well have been, seeing that the sweater was huge on his small frame. How tall was that guy, anyway? He rolled his eyes and tucked the sleeves up above the forearm, giving himself a quick glance towards the mirror and then exiting the bathroom. It kind of made him feel bubbly somewhere deep in his chest, the idea that people would give things away for the sake of another's happiness, despite Karkat being a little bitch baby about it. He didn't even know the guy, and speaking of..

Karkat gazed out of the large windows in the front near the door he'd entered in, curiously searching for that same blonde hair and shades from before. It took only a moment of eye squinting to confirm it, but he noticed.

It had stopped raining.


	2. Recording Coffee Machines

watch?v=OUpP02enWgU

Dave Strider had no idea what he was doing. It was raining and he saw it and something was just so compelling about the way the rain left trails along his apartment windows that he couldn't resist it and had his camera out in moments, sitting in the balcony of his apartment. It wasn't enough. He had taken just so many photos of the heights that it came as a sickening plummet when he dared look at it. How he had managed to even lug the tripod and camera out for this shit was something that maybe he'd like to know too.

It took little to no time for his brother to realize that Dave hated the heights of the apartment only a month into the residence there at the new town. His brother had also taken to realizing Dave hated this town. And it was true; Dave hated the home outside of Texas. He hated moving to New York because it was loud. It was loud and people were ass holes and the streets were crowded and god was it hard to breathe when he stepped outside.

The only time he could even vaguely appreciate it was the rain.

God, did he love the rain in New York. The world seemed to practically die, and whether that was a good thing or not he didn't really care. Everyone in the vicinity seemed to croon back into their hidings like vampires in the rising Sun, burning at the touch like they were hypersensitive to the acidic compounds in the rain, the little it had. Dave on the other hand had found the rain to be many of the lovely feats of such an awful place. It hardly rained in Texas and it was too muddy to bring his camera out, whether it was handheld or tripod and all. Times like these were when he went out, a rare thing of the little times he stepped outside.

And so here he stood, umbrella over his shoulders as he haunted outside a very dainty shop, a blunt title reading "Library" positioned atop the glass windows stretching along the sides of the doors, as if peering inside at the shelves wasn't enough to get the big idea. The useful part of the sign was the part that reminded you there was coffee inside, the labels positioned neatly underneath the big idea. Honestly, he figured the coffee would be the exciting part. The Strider was fairly sure he couldn't feel his toes, anyways, and he had snapped more than enough photos of the shop than he was sure he needed. With the light from the shop coming off as a gladly accepted invitation, he tugged on one of the large wooden doors felt it lurch open with a slight tumble offered from the boy, but it opened easy after that to his relief. He was greeted with warm air from the inside, mostly from what he assumed to be the coffee. Damn, that coffee sounded so good right now.

Color him shocked but literally seconds into the bookstore (Those few seconds took to analyzing the immediate rows of vertical shelving as you walked in, the desk positioned to the left of the shelves at a corner that led off in two ways, one going to the back towards the coffee and from what he assumed to be a group of chairs sitting idly near windows in the other corner and the other branching towards another section lined with more shelves and a small, and he meant small, area of jewelry and trinkets. Possibly a gift shop,) [authors note: that was my way of defining the shop and wow I did that terribly oooooops] before his attention went from coffee to _music._ Yes, they held records, only the oldest and the best.

He strode over to the register desk in minimal long strides, pressing his palms against the same wooden material of the door and offering an inviting smile. Despite his hatred for being outdoors in general, he couldn't help himself feeling just a little giddy getting out and finding some eventful things to his pleasure. The cashier offered a formal customer-attendee greeting before Dave spilled his mixing brew of questions on his mind.

"So about those records. Are they for show, or is it open for buying?"

"Those are available to visitors, yes." He nodded, casting a glance over.

"And are they for borrow or can I purchase them because honest to God, I was not kidding, I will buy each and every one of those and leave pennies as my trademark." He raised a brow at the cashier, his face deadpanned onto something beyond imaginable levels of serious. Strider's did not fuck around when they wanted something—Okay, maybe just a little, but he was serious this time. He wanted that god damn salvation to rip him from his nights nuzzled in mounds of blankets on the couch in the silence scrolling Tumblr.

He was so fucking sick of the silence.

The cashier just nodded and mentioned where to find the prices before letting him turn away to the records. It took a moment for him to make his way over and less than that if it was possible to have his grubby fingers flicking through the titles. God, old bands were the shit because nobody knew a fuckin' thing about them and it made him so ironic to mention unfamiliar media artists to unknowing victims to his Strider ways and god he was so ironic and shit maybe he just really liked old music?

But no, it was ironic.

His trailing of mind set him off focus from the actual titles he flicked through, which may or may not have allowed his senses to range themselves, which may or may not again have saved him from wandering eyes. Beneath the aviators, his orbs flicked to gaze at a darkly haired boy from the farthest corner of the shop, stationed on the booth installed up in the corner near a window. He took quick note that he was a troll, the vibrant colors of his horns prodding out from his mass of dark tendrils. The size, even from here Dave could note of them, was very small and made his candy-corn-horn suspicions practically confirmable. There was no way to deny that a Troll's horns would taste like candy corn. Not a doubt in his mind.

What pulled him from his reverie was the fact that the other didn't. What he meant by that was simply that he'd only now realized the boy wasn't exactly staring at him. Well, yes, his gaze was locked rather firmly on something in the range of his space, but it was like the Troll was seeing right through him. Dave took this moment to pick up a few observations about the dazed boy. One, he was small. He assumed it was from distance, seeing that he was in the front and the troll was literally all the way in the back. Two, he looked really fucking dirty. Okay, yes, Trolls had gray skin, but that wasn't what he meant. It wasn't exactly a feeling of dirt just clearly apparent on his skin rather that you could tell he was coated with layers of a lifetime of sadness just from looking. Three, he looked cold as shit and it wasn't all that hard to draw conclusions from the sheer fabric of his worn, navy T-Shirt and the water dripping from his chin and mentionably thick locks of hair.

In short, he looked like you literally picked up a dirty rat and drowned him. Not that he intended to be offensive or anything. Actually, he felt sympathy for him. Tough luck, huh? Dave happened to be supremely apathetic for the unfortunate, whether it be someone having a bad day, a homeless person, or someone suffering in all general. He couldn't put off the misery he found dwelled in just their posture, the expression that sat on an expressionless face.

But now was different. Actually, the troll looked small enough to be a child, though his features carried something older in them. The longer he stared, the longer guilt welled in his chest. He wasn't quite sure how he'd come to it, but he found himself pulling his sweater off hastily to give to him and striding towards the damsel in distress. He wouldn't be bluffing if he was alarmed that the anonymous boy didn't even look up.

Dave wondered what he was thinking about.

Well, he was here now. He paused for another moment, half expecting him to abandon the façade of ignorance and say something, but the troll just gazed off. What the hell. An awkward silence carried until he tugged on the smaller boys arm, raising a brow down at him.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

Perfect intro, Strider. Dave was thankful he wore his shades, because he took a moment to close his eyes and relish in his failure before recollecting himself. Those ruby eyes opened to the sound of the boys voice instead, though. He was so lost in his thoughts that he forgot about the sweater in his hands.

"Don't touch me, and what the fuck is it that YOU'RE doing?"

And it dawned on him that maybe he'd pissed him off with his snarky comment and silently fumed at himself. He swallowed hard and thanked his clothing attire once again, the scarf masking his nervous posture.

"You've been staring at me like a creep for at least ten minutes." Dave raised his brows for emphasis, setting his stoic, fuckall face on like it was default. The troll seemed very indifferent to his expressionless jabs and Dave took notice of his eye narrow. That storm in his chest had darkened with thunder. Fuck.

"I was looking at.. The records. Clearly." The troll retorted, and Dave almost laughed. He could see literally straight through the sheer piss-on-all act of the smaller boy, and it was amusing if anything. He already found it tempting to snicker at him, but he suppressed it and retained his gentle façade. Instead of making it totally obvious that he had intentions to befriend this anonymous person, he made a jab at concern.

"What happened?" Smooth. Just as smooth as his slide in to the leather-cushioned booth across from the troll. Apparently the boy hadn't appreciated that, because he shot Dave a golden-eyed glare that made Dave feud on cowering away or breaking out in laughter. In the end, he responded, so Dave figured he'd gotten somewhere.

"Should I feel honored that a stranger just invited themselves to sit down with me and dig into my business or feel mortally disgusted? Because I'm pretty sure it's the latter."

Or not. Wow, color him shocked, but in comparison to what he'd expected, no, he got himself absolutely nowhere. He had parked his katoosh right in the nobody gives a shit square of fuckall trolls smack dab in the middle of library-no-wheres-ville, population him. Be fucking cool. That's your vigor, your forte, being the best shit on this planet. You are a Strider and Strider's don't half-ass shit. Why? Because you don't need unfinished business. You are Dave motherfucking Strider.

"Well I originally thought I would have to punch somebody and make a scene for creepin' on me, but you're a lot smaller than I originally thought and, correct me if I'm wrong, but it looks like you need a jacket." And the Nobel Peace Prize for coolest shit on this planet goes to..

"Sure, I'm cold, but who isn't? It's pouring outside and I'm certain I wasn't the only one who hauled my ass in here soaking with a pound or thousand of water, so why give the critique to me?"

… nOT DAVE FUCKING STRIDER THAT'S WHO. Get the hell out of there, he has denied your snarky-ass comments twice now and he does not want your classy, grade-A bullshit. Abscond, he does _not_ want you here.

"Well if you were listening, I already mentioned that you were staring.. In my general direction. But," he raised his hands indignantly. "If you want me to go that bad, I'll leave."

And with that top-dog-shit escape, he stood and swept out of the booth, swiftly ducking around a row of bookshelves.

He would admit that getting home would be cold. He'd left his sweater. Intentionally, of course.

Dave practically jumped out of his god damn skin when the phone in his pocket buzzed. He fished it out, dropped it once while picking up his umbrella, and eventually managed to answer the call while ducking out of the shop and opening his knight and shining armor of a coverage. It was his boyfriend. They'd been dating for two years now, and Dave was proud of it to say in the least. His love was adorable, and they fit together like pieces in a puzzle. Except, now was not the best of times. Dave was shivering in his shoes and the rain nipped at his skin like ice picks. A familiar, light-pitched voice drifted through the phone.

"Dave, are you coming home? It's raining really hard and Dirk said you were out."

It made his heart quiver with satisfaction that lifted the pooling of his mind that the other was concerned about him. He smiled to himself and turned his gaze up skyward, nodding despite the fact that no one would see the action. It was for himself only. As he strode, he took note of the fact that the rain was falling to a halt.

"I'll be there in a minute, John."


	3. Baby Slut

Okay, so Dave Strider may or may not have been street lurking and he also may or may not have come in contact with a certain head of dark hair and persistent features and also may or may not have settled to meet up with them and jesus fuck, Dave had street lurked and had come in contact with that same kid and settled to meet up with him.

When his date with John had been interrupted by a phone call insisting that his cousins bakery had started a fire and, to Dave's misfortune, was mandatory to head over to make sure everyone was alright, he was left to his own mischief, or..

Yeah, no, Dave wasn't that kind of an idiot.

Instead, he had taken to lurking around the streets, camera in hand, snapping photos of the daily lives of others. The way children would mindlessly cry at the sight of another who would hold a conversation just as casual as any other to seemingly no one into a phone, the way concession stands and food sellers would wave their products and insist a purchase to by passers with just as persistent an interest at anything but them, was simply intriguing to this Strider.

With his attention drawn to a certain group of troll-dancers, one that he'd seen before on his occasional escapades around the city, he couldn't deny the annual snap of the camera he'd always take. The crowd was lurching in fits of applauding, and studying the photo was difficult. Fucking New Yorkers.

He'd managed to escape the horde to actually regard the photo with a vigilant eye that he'd noticed a familiar face and then-

Yep, spine aching and that same small feature molesting the fuck out of his grill. He was tempted to tell the kid to get the hell off and/or call the police, but the option was dubbed an ill choice when a look of surprise at his own actions took over the trolls features. There was a delicate exchange of words, careful but set with meaning, before Dave was off. Quickly.

Yeah, he wanted to get his shit out of there ASAP. That kid was kind of terrifying in a way and he'd be glad to get the shirt back and be done with it promptly. He sent only a single glance backwards to catch the horns on his mass of hair before he vanished around that same crowd. Well, that or the building on the corner Dave had turned was blocking his view, but in any case, he and the boy were moving in opposite directions. This Strider had just about enough of the worlds shenanigans for today.

Speaking of the day's worth of tomfoolery, he'd yet to ring up his damsel in distress of his cake crisis. Wow, Dave, stop sounding like you're from the 1900's, jesus fuck. With snarky circa speech behind, he tapped in the same number, the one embedded into his memory from years of knowing this kid, and smiled to the dialing connection as a ring bubbled out from the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey, John, I'm heading back. Want me to stop by the bakery? How's the Crocker doin'?"

Dave could practically hear the laughter in John's voice, and it hurt his heart. "Everything's fine. Jane has to have an inspector come and poke around the place and she promised to take better care of the oven, but other than that, it's alright. Feel free to drop by, though."

"Sweet, and yes, pun intended." And without making space for the other to respond, he hit the fuck you button and slid the phone into his pocket.

• • •

A whine escaped his lips and, ow, he really should stop hitting his head on the counter. But then again, what better did he have to do? Snowman shot the teen a piercing glare with her vibrant emerald orbs before looking back to the customer. Apparently her gaze had not died down as the female had paled and her voice seemed lost when she just nodded to Snowman's inquiring of her purchased item.

Karkat, on the other hand, was tired and upset. Like payment for staying outside like a dumpster diver, he was required to help out at the store on particularly popular days like this. Though it was like a job as weekly he would normally offer to help out, his payment was clothes and things in the like. Of course, it wasn't like bribery, the whole "Work for us and we'll give you living supplies!" ruse. No, it was more like "I'd love to have you help out, take this as our gratitude," sort of situation.

Except now, Karkat was seriously not in the working mood. He was glad for a moment that he couldn't be permanently hired here, otherwise he'd just _die._ At that thought, he laughed onto the counter and- Wheezed a little.

"Come on deary, we've got business to do. No means to push and shove, but the customers are staring."

The troll had quickly identified Callie holding responsible for the harsh back pat, despite first assuming Jake, and leaned up from his recesses of agony. With a groan, Callie led him off towards the back, ushering with the task of hanging up recently shipped clothing articles.

Half way to the back, he fell to a stop. "That reminds me! This sounds seriously imposing and yeah, I know, what shitfactory did I come from, right? But I need to borrow a shirt." With eyebrows raised, his gaze rested on the girls face.

"Oh, well of course, but.. Might I ask why?" Her own abnormally pallid brows furrowed together on her forehead, and Karkat resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn't exactly want to explain the embarrassing situation he'd hauled himself into.

"Something happened to this sweater and.. yeah," he gave a wave of his hands in a circular motion, suggesting to move on. "I just need a new shirt. You know what, let's just say this one smells like reeking ass." The teen frowned at himself, but whatever, works for now.

Callie seemed to take that as a reasonable answer and made a gesture to a certain clothing rack labeled by "teens." Karkat nodded in thanks and, with a quick reminder to finish the task at hand, sauntered towards it.

Wow, fuck, these shirts were god awful. There was one that said 'I Love Mayonnaise' on it and one completely doused in the fruity pebbles pattern and jesus fuck he was mortified. Color him shocked, but one literally said baby slut on it and that got him retching. Literally, he had never seen such backwards bullshit logic in anyones two faced mind that would compel an idiot to buy such a thing, and he was gaping at it in silence when yet another hand practically broke his shoulder.

This time, he was fairly sure who he would identify it as, because he only knew one person who worked out enough in such ridiculous portions to manage such annoying potency, that person being Dirk Strider, whose calm voice drifted into his revolted silence. Karkat could hear the amusement in it when he did.

"Suits you." And Karkat was ready to bite fingers off. Instead, in spite of his urge to, he made a harsh jab of his elbow. Dirk being.. Well, Dirk, leaned away easily before returning to his previous standing position, rewarding an eye roll from the smaller teen.

"I'm not buying it. I just need a shirt to wear, and one that doesn't point me out like a beacon in the night sky." He continued flicking through the rack, and Dirk made a noise familiar to a snicker before lounging off to the opposite side. It didn't take long for him to find another handful of awful clothing choices and the same for Dirk, of which they snickered at together with a fit of eyebrow waggling and snarky comments. Then, there was a noise of surprise from the blonde's side.

"What, another 'Bad Girls' shirt?" Karkat raised his brows and stood on his tip toes in attempt to peer over. Of course, his 4'8 self got nowhere with that, and Dirk's small poke of blonde hair was moving towards his side. When he poked around the corner of the rack, he raised a sweater laced over a hanger, this time waggling his brows more suggestively than jokingly.

Actually, it wasn't that bad a sweater. It was blue definitely, adorned in small flowers of red in patterns along it, save for the 'peter pan' collar around the neck. Compared to the other things he'd seen, he was almost glad to find something like that, and took it from the Strider immediately with a satisfied grin. "Flowers are better than Fuck-Butt, at least. Thanks."

Dirk gave him a little nudge on his arm before grabbing a shirt for himself and striding off. No idea why he wanted a shirt, but whatever floated his boat. The teen shrugged and strode off to the dressing room, tossing it on. Wow, he didn't look bad.

• • •

Dirk Strider was done with being a workhorse and he'd practically thrown himself into the apartment before groaning for aid to actually walk, and that aid came in little time with a snap of comments and ranting as he went down the stairs. That aid was his little bro, Dave. Dave-Stri. Dave Strider. Strider. Lil' Man. Whatever the fuck Dirk happened to spur up to call the kid, maybe.

"Work tough?" A hand met Dirk's, and with a groan of exhaustion, he was pulled up onto his feet. Dave simply raised a brow, frowning at him. Dirk simply rolled his shoulders and shrugged afterwards. "No, I'm just hella lethargic." He made an expression of pity inwardly before striding to the kitchen. Yep, it was sugar bomb time. He had work to do _still._

"Heads up, John's here, so don't make too much noise in the garage." He turned and was heading up the stairs in little time.

"Oh, hey, wait." Dave glanced back at Dirk's words, brows arched again. Dirk made a gesture to the bag he'd abandoned as he plunged in, urging the younger Strider to take it. That was what Dave did, heading back down the stairs like he had before taking hold of the bag. There was a snort of laughter before he pulled the shirt out, grinning at the letters bold on the front in white text:

BABY SLUT.

And that had the two Strider's snickering at each other before Dave rolled his eyes, frames off, thanking the other and heading up the stairs same as he had before. Moments later, he heard that same laughter from his brother and the bespectacled boyfriend of him. With that lighter feeling in his chest, he made a turn around the kitchen and to the door leading into the garage, his work space.

Music on and placed over his ears, loud enough to drown out any other noise, he began tinkering.


End file.
